


The Best of Us

by sodamattchine



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Anniversary, Country Music, Dirk plays guitar, Help, I dont know how to tag, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Pancakes, Tags May Change, bc why not, doot doot, fuck yeah, they all live in like Ohio or something
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:22:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodamattchine/pseuds/sodamattchine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage." —Lao Tzu</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fuuuck.

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first story to post on here, and im not too good. constructive criticism is appreciated! vuv

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you're currently working on your latest project. It's also your anniversary, but you've forgotten about that for a moment. You think you have something planned.

You tighten a bolt on the shoulder of your new bot—you haven't decided what to name it yet—before pressing a makeshift nerve-ending with tip of your screwdriver. Sure enough, the fist closes and you smile proudly. _Project's almost done_ , you tell yourself, and move to attach the upper body to the hips and legs. You smile in satisfaction when the eyes light up and dart around. You quickly reach behind him and flip his switch.

A very unmanly scream comes from your throat at the sound of your phone blaring and vibrating, interrupting the country songs you have at top volume. You grumble to yourself about how you aren't a pussy and set your wrench down before you make your way to your phone, picking your phone up to see who in the fuck would text you at a time like this.

_Well happy friggin anniversary to you too strider._

Shit. Fuck. _Dammit_. You forgot to talk to Jake. You thank the gods that he decided to text you, so he didn't have to hear your stuttering as you scramble for an excuse.

_Sorry, babe. I've been doing something special for you._

That was a lie. You chew on your lip as you wait for a reply. God, he's pissed at you. You've been holed up in your garage all day, working on your robot, and you haven't _bothered_  to text your boyfriend on your anniversary. You woke up with a plan for a robot, and you started working on it. You had planned the dinner for weeks, so you aren't worried about that. But you _are_  worried about what a heartless _asshole_  Jake probably thinks you are. You jump at the vibration in your hand.

_What have you been planning hm? Humor me._

Sighing, you fumble around for just how you could get out of this.

_I've been making somethin_

You erase that. _Too stupid_ , you tell yourself.

_Well, it's a bit hard to expl_

No.

_It's romantic as fuck and you'll swo_

Weird.

_It's a surprise._

Good enough. You send it, and chuckle to yourself because Jake hates surprises with a passion. And he tells you that in his next text.

_Well, I guess you want our romance to fail. What's the point of having an awesome boyfriend if he doesn't try to surprise you every now and then? It keeps shit alive, man._

_*sigh* Cant you give me hint good man? Its my anniversary too!_

_I know how much you love my Texan._

He stops answering you after that, and you check the time. Two-thirty-seven. Fuck. It was a little tight, but you could do it. You quickly transfer your music to your living room speakers, as loud as possible. Thankfully Dave was off stuffing John's turkey or whatever. You roll your eyes at the thought and rush to the kitchen, gathering everything you need for Jake's favorite thing in the world besides you: berry scones.

You get out everything before realizing that you have no buttermilk. Shitshitshit. You quickly run to your truck, clambering in and lighting up a cigarette. Cussing to yourself around your cancer stick, you jerk backwards out of the driveway and speed to the grocery store. You take a long drag and flick the ashes off as you stop in a parking spot. You take the longest, most heavenly pull off the tobacco while walking to the door, savoring it as you flick it to the ground to stomp it under your foot and your stride doesn't break once.

You blow out the smoke right before you walk in the door, and you notice people giving you strange looks. You think it's for the long steps you take, or how you fluidly move around the people headed towards you, or probably because your 6'3" frame is so much longer than theirs, but your muscles still bulge out of your arms and sculpt your abdomen and legs.

That's about the time you remember that you're wearing a gray undershirt smeared with grease like your entire upper body, the tightest black skinny jeans known to man, and some worn-as-balls combat boots that you refuse to tie. Oh, not to mention a backwards baseball cap.

You pretended not to notice the teenage girls—and the occasional boy—swooning as you pass them. You know you smell like work, but you could honestly care less. You make your way to the back, grabbing a pint of buttermilk before all but jogging to the front. With a smile, a nod, and a hand full of buttermilk, you leave the store to woo your angry boyfriend.


	2. Haaappy Anniversary!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies." —Aristotle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so theres quite a bit of rambling in this chapter, but its okay because its jake and thats what happens when youre really in love with someone.
> 
> "back to their roots" striders are a total weakness of mine and goooddammit someone serenade me with a country song
> 
> also- song is "get me some of that" by thomas rhett, and some of the lyrics have been changed because hes not singing to a girl.

Your name is Jake English and you are unbelievably furious with your boyfriend. But you still showed up at six-o'-clock like he asked. You were just so friggin' excited to see what the lad had come up with! You had to come.

You knock on the door before crossing your arms, pretending—relatively—to be angry with him. You pretend that you don't want to be here. You hear a faint yell of "Come on in!" so you decide to play along and do just that. You walk into his house and turn into the living room

and see him.

Your boyfriend.

Dirk Strider.

And the sight of him knocks the breath out of your lungs, turns your stomach into the most painful and wonderful of knots, makes your heart stop, only to pick up double-time.

You're totally in love with him.

You smile, taking every inch of him in.

His stupid black wife beater and stupid denim skinny jeans; his ratty orange Converse up to his black hat that he chose to wear _backwards_. He's sitting on the couch and leaning back leisurely. He has his guitar in his lap and he's strumming the most delightful tune with that damn knowing smirk on his face and his hair is down but your dick is _not_  hot damn.

You nod your head once, still smiling. "Good evening to you, Strider."

He lets out a deep rumbling chuckle and you're a puddle on the floor. "Hey, baby," he all but mumbles, and he lets his accent slip. It's slow and lazy and articulate and so prominent and it feels like someone punched you in the face.

Well... Not exactly. But _gad-friggin'-zooks_. He's lovely.

You take in the ambiance he's set up; the candles on each end of the long coffee table, carefully unscented. He had ordered a pizza—your favourite: Hawaiian with mushrooms and extra cheese—in the shape of a heart. You notice he took the liberty of writing _Happy anniversary, Jake._ in black marker on the lid. You don't think that's very romantic, but you let out a small giggle because it's cute. The lights are all off, candles placed everywhere to create a soft glow.

"You've outdone yourself, Dirk," you tell him with a smile, walking closer with your eyes still wondering around. "This is–!" You take a deep breath and let it out with a slight upward flail of your arms. "This is absotively posilutely topnotch."

He laughs quietly, and the sound shakes your core. "Jesus, Jakey. I never know what in the hell you're sayin'." But the _you're_  comes out like _yer_  and you've forgotten why you were mad at him.

You still cross your arms over your chest and glare at him. "Now, that bit was understandable. You are not of low intelligence, Strider, and I don't expect you to act like it just because you're going back to those goshdarn roots of yours. Blast, I know a smart person when I see one."

He starts singing a song, ignoring you, of course, and you find yourself walking to the couch and taking a seat next to him as he serenades you.

_Yeah babe, been diggin' on you;_

_Sippin' on drink number two,_

_Tryin' to come up with somethin' smooth,_

_And waitin' on the right time to make my move._

You recognise it as the song he sang at the bar you met him at. It was karaoke night and his friends dared him to go up. He was kinda nervous at first, but he loosened up after awhile, removing his stupid anime shades and tucking them into the collar of his shirt, smiling as he sang and absolutely _rocking out_. You remember when his eyes met yours in a cliche moment, and his smile got that much wider and he sang to you for the rest of the song. He didn't have his guitar, but he was just as amazing.

_But I just can't wait no more._

_Can't let you slip out that door._

_Prettiest thing I ever seen before._

_Got me spinnin' around, I ain't even on the dance floor._

He smiles at you and you see every frigging thing you've ever loved in them, and you're burning in a fire as orange as the fruit itself. His gaze swallows you up and you're out of breath from the intensity of the emotions it's practically vomiting all over you.

You love him so much.

_You're shakin' that money maker, like a heart breaker, like your college major was_

_Twistin' and tearin' up Friday nights;_

_Love the way you're wearin' those jeans so tight._

You smile at him and you can tell he's thinking of the same thing you are.

_I bet your kiss is a soul saver, my favorite flavor, want it now and later._

_I never seen nothin' that I wanted so bad._

_Ohh, I gotta get me, gotta get me some of that;_

_Yeah gotta get me some of that._

You lean into his side, thankfully on his right, turning his face and pressing your lips to his. A fire ignites in the very pit of your soul and you never wish to extinguish it. It's so painfully delicious, like Dirk's lips as the mould to yours and for frig's flippin' sake you never thought the shitty aftertaste of cigarette would taste so frigging amazing.

He pulls away too soon to start singing in your ear.

_Little more what you doin' right there:_

_Swingin' your hips and slingin' your hair,_

_Side to side with your drink in the air;_

_Lord, have mercy, now, baby, I swear._

You laugh (though it sounds more or less like a female giggle) when he nips at your ear and you complain quietly, without really caring, that your pizza is going to get cold.

_Gotta get your number in my phone._

_Gotta get me some of you alone._

_We can worry 'bout it later on,_

_Right now just keep makin' this my favorite song._

"It already is your favourite," you laugh out, and the world might as well know it's true. He told you so when he was done singing and walked over to meet you. He was red and sweaty and panting, but he still looked so damn good in his leather vest and white shirt with that damn orange hat on it and black straight-legged jeans and orange converse. His hair was spiked up haphazardly in the back and you were thankful for his shades being off. You could see his eyes dancing across your body as he smiled and he was just so damn attractive and you were a bit drunk so you kissed him. He asked you to be his boyfriend after that, and of course you said yes.

He sings the rest of the song, but you aren't really listening so much as paying attention to him. He looks so good. He's not wearing those blasted gaudy triangles, thank gods above, and he always gets so into his music. You couldn't be happier.

After he sets his guitar down, you attack him with a kiss, and you're just so fricking thankful that he did this and you made sure to tell him so when you eat the now-cold pizza. You almost start crying when he brings out your favourite scones because you know he hates them, but he still made them for you. He lets you gush about how perfect he is before he take your hand—while you're still talking—and pulls you up the stairs into his room. You know what's coming next and your ass will be sore in the morning, but he's always so gentle and you are crying by then because he's "just so perfect, Dirk Strider, I love you so much." He tells you to shut up, more or less, before kissing you oh so gently and it cuts off all of your senses and thoughts and all you can feel is Dirk's lips on yours and great gadzahoony you love him so much. You don't stop saying it until you've fallen asleep.

Happy anniversary to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was quite a long chapter. i dont know when ill post the next one or what itll be about, but ill try hard to post it soon. thanks!!!


	3. Breakfast at Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The first duty of love is to listen." —Paul Tillich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i do summarize every chapter with a quote about love

Your name is Dirk Strider and you are making pancakes. Why? Because Jake wanted you to. You'd do anything for Jake. Even when he wakes you up at nine in the Godforsaken morning to make him some motherfucking pancakes...

Though you'd still get fucking pissed at him.

So here you are, flipping pancakes like you were born to do it... You decide to make some bacon to go with it. Maybe some eggs... You'll worry about the bacon right now.

"I love me some meat," you say to yourself while putting another pan on a different burner. "Fuck yeah. Bacon." You turn on the fire—damn gas stoves—and wait for the pan to get hot. In the meantime, you flip the pancakes and whistle. It's only what the best housewives would do.

"Strider, how many flippin' pancakes are you gonna— Holy Toledo!"

There's your lovely boyfriend, just waking up for the second time. His voice is gravelly and slightly whiney, and you turn to see his hair pointing every which way. His mouth is now wide open and all you can do is give him a smirk.

"You asked for pancakes, and I didn't want to disappoint."

He makes his way over to you and hugs your waist childishly—which is when you notice that he's wearing only your shirt—to which you respond by wrapping your arm around his shoulder. You lean down to kiss his head, hearing him hum happily at your actions.

Jake only comes up to just about your nipples, but he's a giant compared to Dave's boyfriend, John. Kind of. John comes up to Jake's shoulder, and Dave comes up to your chin.

But Jake is just the right height for you to lean down and kiss. He has amazing lips. You love seeing them all red and swollen after—

Ho-kaaay, never mind. You're making pancakes in a pair of boxer-briefs. Shit, pancakes!

You quickly flip those off the pan and pour the rest of the batter onto the heat to cook. Meanwhile, you get started on the bacon, and your arms are so damn tough they don't feel anything but a pleasant warmth when the grease splatters them.

Or that's what you'd tell anyone that would ask. In front of Jake, on the other hand, you let out hisses and strings of cuss words until the pain ebbs.

"Dirk, are you almost done?" Jake whines out from beside you. "I'm starving."

You let a chuckle rumble through your chest. "Almost, babe. Just gotta fry up all of the bacon."

He groans, but it really doesn't take _too_  long. He knows that. It takes all of five minutes for you to have three plates of pancakes—one of them has eighteen—and a single plate with a mountain of bacon. You grab your plate of four pancakes and the one with the bacon before sitting on one side of the table. Jake grabs his two, the syrup, and two forks, and then settles across from you. You were already working on using half of the stick of butter on the table to coat each top of the pancake, and then dumped syrup on each one. Nearly half the bottle. Jake, being a bit more reasonable, uses a small amount of butter between the two pancakes, drizzling the top with syrup.

"Commence the feast," you say with a smirk as you cut into all four pancakes.

Jake chuckles across from you, digging into his as well. "Why did you make so many pancakes?"

You give him a fake glare from behind your shades and speak through a mouthful of pancakes. "The pancake god was calling to me." You swallowed. "He was all like, _Dirk, make a whole shit-ton of pancakes. You don't wanna do math._  And I was like, _Ah-ight, man. Ain't gonna mess with the pancake god or whatever._ " You take another bite, chewing slightly before speaking. "Math is for pussies and I really fucking like pancakes."

That makes him laugh until he's bright red, hunched over his pancakes and barely avoiding getting his hair in the syrup. When he's finally done, though, you have a half-smile playing on your lips and you're carefully cutting through your food. "Don't you do math everyday, Strider?" he asks, catching a tear with his thumb. "You do work with mechanics and such."

You shrug and nod. "And?" you question, barely avoiding food spilling from your lips. You swallow and stare very blankly at your boyfriend. "I said that math is for pussies, didn't I?"

That gets the grin of his face. He glares viciously at you from across the table. "I will not have any of that malarkey this morning, Dirk Strider, you hear me?"

Sighing, you look down to your plate. "Sorry, Jake."

He _hates_ when you talk bad about yourself. _Hates_. With a passion. One time when you did it, he didn't talk to you for a whole week until you apologized. You remember crying, and that's what really made him forgive you. You hardly ever cry, especially in front of people. It hits Jake hard when you cry.

You see him nod once as he stabs at a bite. "It's okay, old chap." He slides it off his fork with his teeth.

You reach over and grab a piece of bacon, looking to the door as it opens. Two teenagers walk in, one minuscule and the other a giant. You give them a smirk and bite into the bacon while Jake works on covering himself with your shirt.

"Hey, little man," you say to Dave, who gives you a nod and walks over to pound your fist and get a slice of bacon. John trails closely behind him. You give him a quick "'sup" before turning back to your brother. "Get laid?"

While he nods with that smartass smirk playing on his lips, Jake exclaims your name and John turns the brightest red you've seen in awhile.

"Yeahhh," you laugh out, punching Dave's shoulder. You hold your hand out for John to high-five you, and he does so weakly. You point at him. "Good job, little dude."

Jake kicks you under the table and you flip him off in response, still facing Dave. "There's pancakes on the counter and plenty of bacon." You remind yourself of your own pancakes, and quickly indulge yourself with said food.

"Does he know that it's lunchtime?" you hear John asking Dave quietly in the kitchen.

Dave promptly backs away from him with a hand on his chest. "Well, I'd neva!" he exclaims in a very southern accent.

"Breakfast is good for all meals," you tell John.

He seems to think about it before he shrugs and puts a pancake on his plate. He and Dave come sit down, your brother next to you and John next to Jake.

Anyone could easily guess that they were related, and you guess they are. They're cousins, you think. You don't dwell on that. But their hair is the same texture and thickness, John's hair a raven black and Jake's dark, _dark_  brown. They have the same eye shape and nose, except John's eyes were royal blue and Jake's, grassy green that stuck in your dreams.

As you go to put your plate in the sink, Jake tugs you down by your arm and hisses at you to at least get him some underwear or something. You chuckle and press a kiss to his lips before disposing of your plate and going to get your precious boyfriend a pair of briefs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo this chapter sucks

**Author's Note:**

> i have an inconsistent schedule, so it may been sooner or later before a post more chapters, but i will try. and i have like infinity-and-ten stories going at once, so i apologize greatly if it takes awhile for me to update one particular story. not to mention when i have writers block, i have it *bad*. okay im rambling goodbye *flash-steps into the mooniverse*


End file.
